The End of the Beginning
by lockXandXkey
Summary: England is caught in the Blitz.  So, naturally, America is there to be the hero.  USUK


**I don't know how often I'm gonna get on here... My life's been kinda hectic lately. Anyway, if it's not too much trouble, I'd like to dedicate this fan fic to the person who first introduced me to yaoi. I have no idea where I'd be right now if it weren't for her. She's been an amazing friend to me, and sadly I'm not that good at expressing my feelings. Thus, I wrote this for her. :) So, you know who you are. Thanks. For everything. You're an amazing friend. 3  
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The End of the Beginning

London is burning.

England stood in the middle of London. The sirens had just started to wail. Too late, England thought, gazing up into the rainy night sky. Much too late. He could feel the people's fear flaming inside of him. He could hear their prayers, see the horror in their eyes.

The bombs had begun to fall.

England turned and sprinted down the roads, trying to get people up, wake them, make them get out of the house and into their shelters before it was too late. People ran past him, shoving him out of their way. Bombs smashed into houses. Fire raged. And England kept running.

Pain flared along his chest. He felt as though he himself was being slowly cooked over an open fire. The place just over his heart throbbed.

Houses were aflame. All he could hear was screaming. But one scream stood out. Made him look around for the source.

A little boy, screaming for help.

England turned and sprinted towards the source of the yell. Within seconds, he'd arrived. The house was on fire. It hadn't been hit with a bomb, but that didn't seem to stop if from burning.

"My baby! Someone, help my baby!" a woman standing several feet from England shrieked. A few men were holding her back, away from the house, trying desperately to keep her from going back into her home. She had a slightly crazed look on her face, and her hair, which and been in a bun, was falling down around her face. Ash and soot was smudged all over her.

England looked back at the house. He heard that scream again. There was something familiar about it. Something that made his heart give an uncomfortable twang. There was something it reminded it him of…

England licked his lips. _I'd better not bloody regret this_, he thought, pulling his shirt up over his nose and mouth, and racing up the cobblestone walkway and into the house, completely ignoring the shouts of soldiers to stay away.

He burst into the house. Smoke made it impossible to breathe and see. The fire just intensified the pain he already felt, the pain that had slowly crept down his chest and along his side.

"Hello!" he called loudly. "Hello?"

There was a muffled, answering shout from upstairs. England looked at the stairwell. "Bloody brilliant," he muttered and swiftly climbed the stairs that had only just begun to burn.

"Where are you?" he yelled.

"Here," came a voice from the room at the end of the hallway. He still couldn't put his finger on what the voice reminded him of…

"I'm coming! Just hold on!" England began down the hall. After a couple steps, he almost fell through a hole in the ground (or would it be ceiling…?). "Damn," he cursed, and leaped over the opening.

Breathing was almost impossible. The air around his mouth seemed to just vanish. He struggled to take a breath, and was relieved to find that he could, but just barley.

A long piece of burning wood almost tripped him. After several long, painful moments, England had reached the door. "Alright," he yelled hoarsely. "Stay away from the door, I'm coming in!"

A huge tremor shook the house. The other shudders had been smaller, and England had refused to worry about them until now, but obviously those bastards were coming back around again to finish what they'd started.

England flinched as the pain around his heart burned white hot, and he smashed down the door using an awesome karate kick. He went into the room.

There, in the corner of the bedroom, was a little boy. England rushed over to him. "Here," he said, reaching out. "Here, I'm not gonna hurt you."

The boy's face was obscured by the shadows. He seemed to falter. England couldn't help but think he had a right to. England's face was covered with ash, and a little blood, he was pretty sure, so he couldn't've looked all that pleasant. But the boy slowly reached up and grabbed England's hand. England pulled him up and finally got a good look at his face.

He had dark blond hair and sky blue eyes and the most innocent expression you could ever see. England felt falling over. _He looks just like…_

An even larger tremor shook the house. "Come on," England said ruffly, and lifted up the boy. The child wrapped his arms around England's neck without a moment's hesitation. He buried his face into England's chest. England tightened his arms around the boy, and made his way back through the house.

He'd reached the bottom of the steps in seconds. But, much to his dismay, the door was completely blocked by flames. England glanced down at the head of the boy. Then back at the door.

"Don't look up," England hissed in the child's ear. He burst into a run: straight for the front door.

_Oh, hell. This is NOT going to end well._

England threw himself through the wall of fire. He landed outside with a loud thump. He had twisted his body at the last minute so that he landed on his side rather than on the boy.

"Urgh," he groaned. He could still hear the screaming. And the bombs were still falling. And he felt as if his heart were slowly being cut out with a white hot knife. "Uhhhh…."

He felt the boy being wrestled out of his arms. He rolled onto his back and struggled to take a breath. White poka dots covered his vision, even though his eyes were shut. He fought to stay conscious.

In the back of his mind, he could hear the woman thanking him over and over, and the soldiers asking him if he were alright. But none of them stayed. They left. Left him alone in the middle of the walkway outside a burning house.

And still, the bombs fell.

Now that he wasn't preoccupied with something else, England could feel every bomb hit the ground. Every life that was lost. Every heart that stopped beating. At each explosion, he flinched. Rain hit his face. He moaned again very quietly and sat up.

_I'm England. I will not be beaten. I refuse to be beaten._

England staggered to his feet. He kept his eyes shut, and wobbled down the walkway. He licked his cracked lips again and stumbled onto the street. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other in desperate attempt to block out the pain.

Right, left, right, left, right, left…

That boy… he'd been so much like _him._ England always tried to shove him out of his mind, but never could. He was just always there, in the back of England's mind. No matter how hard England tried, he just couldn't force him out. It was like he was ingrained into his memories. Forever.

…left, right, left, right, left, right, left…

The largest tremor yet shook the ground. England flinched hard and his knees buckled. His knees cracked against the street. Intense pain radiated along his upper body. He couldn't do it. He was too weak. He couldn't make it. He began to fall forward onto his face…

…when suddenly a pair of hands were there, holding him up, keeping him from falling.

"Wha…?" England groaned. He didn't have the energy to open his eyes. The hands moved and England found himself deep in an embrace. Two arms held him gently. England inhaled. The man smelled like… potatoes. Fried potatoes. And something else… a type of greasy meat. A smell he knew quite well.

"England," he whispered. "Iggy, are you okay? I tried to get here sooner, but my boss wouldn't let me come…"

The voice was extremely frantic. Worried. Scared, even.

England pried his eyes open and gazed at the back of the man. He was wearing a bomber jacket with 50 sewn on the back.

"A… Amer… ica…?" England breathed. The man released England and pulled back, gripping England's shoulders lightly.

He had sopping wet blondish hair and intense blue eyes that stared at England underneath glasses. "Iggy…" He had dark purple circles under his eyes and his face was extremely pale. "Hey, Iggy, are you okay?"

England recovered from his shock. "What… what are you doing here, America? You aren't supposed to be here!"

America stared at him. "Are you nuts? Of course I'm supposed to be here! Did you seriously expect me to stand by and watch you get bombed every other night? I don't think so!" He looked kind of angry.

"No, I mean here as in _here_ in the middle of the street while bombs are being dropped!" England snapped hoarsely. The fact that his voice was quite whispery and quiet from all the smoke he'd inhaled didn't help him in persuasion at all.

America looked at him like he was crazy. "Uh, last time I checked, you were in the middle of the street on your knees. I wouldn't be talking, old man." America grabbed England's upper arms and hauled him up onto his feet. England managed to get his footing before slipping on the wet cobblestones. America reflexively grabbed the front of England's shirt to keep him from collapsing. England yelped in pain as America's hand brushed his chest. America immediately let go, and instead seized England's shoulders.

"Iggy, are you okay?" he asked worriedly as England regained his footing.

"No, I'm bloody not okay," England lashed out. "I've been bombed for weeks, _months_ now, and you only just notice?" America cringed back, and England instantly regretted his words.

"I'm sorry," America whispered. A tortured expression was plastered on his face. "I tried to persuade my boss to let me come, but he wouldn't let me. I would've been here the second the bombing began if I could've."

England felt like someone had just punched him in the stomach. "No – no matter. Never mind. You came as soon as you could."

America grinned pathetically. His face looked unusually strained with the dark circles and sickly look about him. The war must've been affecting him much more than England had thought. "Yeah. The second he said I could come, I came."

England was curious in spite of himself. "Why?"

America blinked. "Why what?"

"Why did you come?"

America looked blank for a moment before grinning again. "Because, not only am I the hero, but there's no way in hell I could ever watch you get hurt by those bastards. Not now, not then, and not ever. Any more stupid questions?"

England's mouth snapped shut and he blushed slightly. "It was a perfectly normal question."

"Whatever," America said, waving his gloved hand. He glanced at the sky. "I think the raid's over."

England looked up too. Rain was pouring down now. "Yeah. For now."

America glared upward. "Well, just so ya know, if they _ever_ try to hurt you again, I'll be there to stop them."

England looked back over at him.

America lips curled back over his teeth ever so slightly and his eyes were dark. "Always."

He glanced back down at England and his expression softened. "Now. Lets get those burns taken care of."

"I'm fine," England protested.

America rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He began towing England down the street and towards England's house.

England struggled. "No! I'm fine!"

America sent him a glare. "Humor me, then."

England grudgingly gave in and allowed America to pull him along. He looked back up at the sky, blinking rain out of his eyes. "I've got this really weird feeling about this whole ordeal…" he muttered.

America glanced up again. "Yeah," he said.

"You know, I think this is the end of the beginning."

"Yeah," England agreed quietly. "I think you're right."

fin


End file.
